


Burning

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Burning, Johnlock - Freeform, Mind Palace, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 21:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1164784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What really pulled Sherlock back from the edge of death and how did he fight his way back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning

Sherlock slammed into the padded cell where he kept his mental representation of Moriarty. He shut the door behind him, panting hard. His heart was stopping, the blood slowing down as it flowed through his veins. The pain was still there, still overwhelming even in this tiny room that held Moriarty in a straight-jacket and chained to the wall. Sherlock stared at the image, repulsed and interested at the same time. The man represented everything dark about himself, everything that Sherlock could become if he ever abandoned the side of the angels. And now, Moriarty had information Sherlock needed. That was the only reason he’d come down here, when he was so close to death. 

“How do you do it?” Sherlock yelled at the image, struggling to stay upright as his skin started turning ghostly pale, even for him. “How do you not feel?”

“It’s not that I don’t feel,” Moriarty taunted, running to the end of his chain and grinning madly at Sherlock. “You _accept_ what you feel, even the pain. It’s not something to be feared, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gasped for breath as he stared at Moriarty. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear but it did indeed make sense. The other man giggled and struggled with his straight-jacket, sawing his arms left and right. Sinking down to the floor, Sherlock let himself feel the pain from the bullet. It burned, like a comet straight through his chest. The knowledge he kept here in his mind palace in the form of Molly and Anderson had helped him stay alive so far. He’d felt the impact from falling on his back absently, like it was happening to someone else. The hallway he’d been standing in had shaken as if in an earthquake though Redbeard didn’t even notice it. That had been his mental version of Mycroft’s advice. Find something calming and comforting. But even that could only work for so long. After all, they’d had Redbeard put down. That’s what was happening to Sherlock now, thanks to Mary and one bullet. The staircase he’d stumbled down in his mind palace to reach this deepest room had faded behind him as his heart slowed. There was nothing to keep it going now. Dimly, Sherlock realized that the doctors who’d been working on him had stepped back. He was dying, if not dead already. There was nothing they could do.

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, Sherlock is boring,” Moriarty sang as Sherlock sprawled out on the floor of the padded room. He settled down on his knees as close to the detective as he could, nearly close enough to whisper into Sherlock’s ear. That made it so much more delicious, the intimacy, the closeness. While just a mental projection of Sherlock’s, this Moriarty was just like the original. And he was relishing this sight. His voice dipped down to a more cooing tone, something between lovers as he continued, “I’m laughing, I’m crying, Sherlock is dying.”

“No, no,” Sherlock mumbled, staring up at the ceiling. It was a losing battle for every breath, the pain slowly consuming his body. Accepting it had allowed him a few more precious seconds but that time was swiftly running out. There was nothing more Sherlock could do. He’d done everything the advisors in his mind palace had told him and it had all been for naught. He would die here, listening to Moriarty giggling and whispering in his ear.

“You know, Sherlock, I always knew we’d end up here,” Moriarty laughed, leaning over Sherlock as far as he could so he could watch the man’s pupils dilate. It was so close now. Just a few more moments and Sherlock would tip over the edge. “You dying and me watching you die. That shot on the rooftop was only second to last move. And I know you know we’d always end up here.”

“Must... breathe....,” Sherlock shook his head feebly, more of a rocking than actual shaking. He’d stopped breathing some time before, maybe during the middle of Moriarty’s little speech. It didn’t hurt anymore, not breathing. There was no burn and desperate begging from his lungs. Sherlock knew that feeling quite well from one adventure at the beach when he was little. An undertow had dragged him far out into the ocean and kept him trapped under the surface, able to see the light and air and freedom above but unable to reach it. Mycroft had found him as the last of Sherlock’s strength had given out and he’d tipped down towards the dark depths of the ocean. Even the pain from the bullet had faded to almost nothing, a floaty and calm feeling overtaking Sherlock.

“I just wish I had dealt with your John before all of this,” Moriarty said conversationally, grinning nastily as Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his. Moriarty leaned down as close as he could, tugging at the chain and making it stretch just a tiny bit farther. He was close enough now for his breath to ghost over Sherlock’s forehead, making the detective shudder at the feeling. “I promised to burn the heart out of you, Sherlock. We all know John is your heart. I saw it, that first time we met face to face at Bart’s. I knew he was they key to you. Not Molly, who you ignored so handily. Not your pet DI, not even your brother. Tell me, Sherlock, how does it feel? How does it feel to leave John Watson in danger? You know he is, Sherlock. Just from his wife if from no one else. But there are others, aren’t there. Who put him in that bonfire, Sherlock? Who wants to make sure John dies, screaming and burning? Who will delight in your death and the torture of John Watson?”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, the word breathed out on a sigh. That was the last of the breath in his body, the last breath he’d been hoarding until now. But there was _something_ to fight for now, someone who could convince Sherlock’s flagging heart to keep beating. John. And thanks to the image of Moriarty that Sherlock kept chained up in here, that heart struggled to beat again. Sherlock pushed himself back up to his knees, gasping hard as he forced air and life back into his lungs. Ignoring Moriarty’s anguished screams, Sherlock pounded on the floor of the padded cell. Each retort echoed with the sound of John’s name falling from his lips until Sherlock felt his heart kick in his chest. It wasn’t much but it was enough. Without looking back at the now-gibbering Moriarty, Sherlock stumbled back out of the padded room and slammed the door behind him. The staircase he’d come down stood before him, stark and pale. But the wood of the railing was a deep mahogany, red glints like blood shining at him. The head of that staircase called and Sherlock knew he had to make it. For John.

The first step up was probably the hardest, though it didn’t really get much easier. Sherlock gripped the banister desperately, pulling himself up the stairs. His breath still came in heaving pants but at least he was _breathing_. Memories ran through his mind, memories all attached to John. Laughing just inside the door of their flat after running through London, John’s face as Sherlock shot the wall, John always reminding him of when he was being a little too blunt, the experiment he’d run on John at Baskerville. Hundreds of little moments, whether smiling, laughing, screaming, or sitting quietly in their flat. This was the reason Sherlock fought back up the stairs, literally dragging his body up step by step. John was in danger and Sherlock was the only one who knew. The only one who could protect him.

“You won’t make it,” Molly said sadly as Sherlock stopped for just a moment halfway up the stairs. “There’s been too much blood loss. You’ve been gone too long, Sherlock.”

“Watch me,” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth and shoved his way past Molly. She disappeared, looking up after him sadly. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could make his way back. Anderson was next, nodding enthusiastically as Sherlock made it to the step the man was waiting on about three-quarters of the way to the top.

“Not too much farther now,” Anderson encouraged, reaching out a hand to help Sherlock up to the next step. “You’re almost there.”

Sherlock accepted the hand in surprise, wondering why he was making his mental Anderson so helpful. But the man knew what he was about, knew his job. And Sherlock had a deeper appreciation for Anderson after finding out that he was the only one who had actually realized Sherlock wasn’t dead and had tracked his movements. As he struggled up another stair, Sherlock felt Anderson’s eyes on him before he faded away as well. The head of the stairs was in sight and Sherlock could feel his heart beating a little more strongly. There was a persistent beep in his ear, something medical and distant sounding. A cacophony of voices accompanied him the last few steps. Reaching the top, Sherlock saw John in the distance. The doctor was standing there watching him, a small smile on his face.

“I knew you could do it,” John told Sherlock, reaching out a hand towards the detective. “One more miracle, Sherlock. Don’t be dead.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as John disappeared, the cold and somewhat blue light of a sterile hospital room bright after the soft warmth of his mind palace. Doctors worked above him, one shining a penlight into his eyes and asking if he was still with them. Sherlock managed to nod slowly, tracking the penlight’s movement at the doctor’s request. But there was something he needed to do, someone he needed to talk to. What was it again? A hazy memory surfaced, a woman dressed in black holding an equally black gun. Quiet sobbing accompanied the memory, but that wasn’t what was important now. What was important was...

“Mary,” Sherlock gasped out once the intubation tube was removed. He needed to tell John about Mary, tell him that she was dangerous and not who John believed she was. But as Sherlock struggled to sit up, his body wouldn’t obey him. His shoulders had barely lifted from the bed before hands were pushing down gently. It didn’t take much weight either and Sherlock let himself sink back down. There was a curious numbness in his stomach though behind the numbness lurked a sharp burn. The bullet wound. Pain meant he was alive again, hands on his shoulders meant he was back. Sherlock had time now, time to protect John. With a slight smile, Sherlock let the blackness that had been creeping in on his vision overwhelm him. He needed to heal and sleep was the best way to do that. Sherlock wouldn’t even begrudge the time spent sleeping this time because it was all for John. Always John.


End file.
